Moments like this
by RocknRollagirl
Summary: In moments like this, he fears he might never actually get out of here. This room, this town, this life. Or: A young Sam alone in a motel room waiting for his family.


**Hey there:) **

**Long time, no see, but life happened and I kinda fell of the fanfic train for a while. But I can never let go of it completely and so I come back to you with this little thing that is honestly pure self indulgence. Because, let´s be real, some days are f***ing hard and writing is cathartic. You know what I mean. Also, this is not betaed, so all mistakes are mine alone. **

**With that said, enjoy and take care, my friends:)**

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The sun is slowly setting outside the motel room. He watches the shadows creep up the road, past the parked cars and trash cans outside in the lot, eating up the remaining daylight until they reach the porch. His calculus books lay open in front of him and have for the last three hours, but for some reason he can´t concentrate on the numbers, his gaze constantly straying from the pages to the road outside the window.

_They should be back by now. _

He checks his watch, allows his eyes to follow the tiny plastic finger around the watch dial, watching the seconds tick by. When he looks up again, the road is still empty.

_Course it is. What´d you expect?_

The thing is, this is what he expected, if he´s being honest with himself. When Dad clapped him on the back two weeks ago, telling him they won´t be long, he found himself torn between wanting to shake the hand of and wishing the touch would linger. When Dean tussled his hair, threw him one of these smiles that light up his whole face and said: "See you in two weeks, Sammy", he wanted to scoff at that. He wanted to roll his eyes, but Dean´s smiles seem to get rarer by the day and he didn´t have the heart to see it disappear.

It´s not that they are lying to him on purpose, he knows that. But sometimes traces lead to nowhere, witnesses lie or the research doesn´t add up. And a one week-job turns into a two and a half-week job, even though Dad only left them money for seven days. Since he turned fourteen two months ago he can work for himself, carry out newspapers or mow lawns or, if he gets lucky, help in the grocery store. On their second day here in Silverton, Utah, he asked the cashier of the little mom-and-pop store next to the library if they needed someone. Since then he heads there every day after school for two hours to bag grocery or restock the isles. It´s mindless work, but he finds that he enjoys it, loosing himself in the repetitive motions of stocking, sweeping, bagging. If the owner of the motel forgets they are due for rent tomorrow, he can probably make the money last another two weeks. If not, he still has roughly four days before he has to get creative.

_If I leave I´ll miss my test on Monday._

The thought flashes through his head and he shakes it off, feeling disappointed and then mad at his own disappointment. There are more important things, after all. That´s what Dad would say, that´s what Dean would say, that´s what he whispers to himself in the empty room. "There are more important things."

And yet. He´s studied for the whole two weeks. He kinda hopes that it wasn´t all for nothing.

The shadows have reached the window, casting the room in darkness and making the numbers in front of him hard to decipher. He briefly considers turning on the light, then dismisses the thought. He won´t get any more work done today anyway.

With a sigh he closes the books, drops the pen and stands up.

_Now what?_

The thing is, he doesn´t really have anything to do, anywhere to go. He doesn´t really know anyone in this place, not in a way that goes beyond sharing pens during classes or the rare cigarette during breaks Dean can never find out about. The other kids tolerate him in the way you would a somewhat exotic bird. He is interesting because he´s different, but that also makes him an outcast. As soon as his colorful feathers have lost their novelty, they mostly forgot about him.

He walks until his stands in front of the king size bed he shared with Dean before they left. He lets himself fall onto the covers face first, breathes in the scent of cheap laundry detergent and slowly turns on his back to stare at the ceiling.

_I could die here and nobody would know._

For a moment, he lets himself imagine the scene. How the neighbors would complain about the funky smell or how an unassuming cleaning lady would open the door just to find his body, lying lifelessly atop the covers. Then he immediately feels bad about it. Nobody deserves to see that.

It´s not that he wants to die, really. Who knows what might happen to him then? Dead things can be a lot scarier than living things, that´s one thing hunting has taught him for sure. Also, there´s Dean and Dad and school and a whole world out there for him to see. It´s just sometimes, in moments like this, it all feel so out of reach he might as well be standing on the moon looking down at the earth. In moments like this, he fears he might never actually get out of here. This room, this town, this life. That he´ll be stuck forever in this weird in-between. Not really a hunter, not really anything else. Like there´s a wall of glass around him that separates him from the rest of the world. Nobody can see it but running against it hurts. It hurts like hell.

He´s somewhat surprised to feel a tear running down his cheek. It´s quickly followed by another. And another. Since he´s lying on his back, they drop into his ears and into his hair and that feels kinda gross, but at the same time he can´t be bothered to do anything about it. He just lies there, crying himself out silently, even though there´s no need. There´s no one around to hear him, after all. But old habits run deep.

When he opens his eyes again, it´s pitch black outside. The tears have left salty trails on his face that feel all dried up and his head hurts, but at the same time, he feels lighter, somehow. Like the tears washed some of the worry out, took some of the fear with them and what´s left of him feels raw und tired but vaguely optimistic at the same time.

Before he can wonder what woke him up, he hears the squeaking of a car door, hushed voices outside in the lot. And he exhales, slowly, and bans all his worst fears, all the dark voices whispering "what if?" into a far corner of his mind, because _they are back. _

_They are fine_.

He knows the voices will wait patiently for the next time, never gone for good, but for now, it´s good enough.

"Yo, Sammy, you awake?" The door cracks open, the dirty yellow light of a street lamp slicing through the darkness inside the room and even though it casts Dean´s face in shadows, he doesn´t need to see it to know his brother is smiling. One of his real smiles.

So he rubs a hand down his face, puts his feet on the ground and meets his family at the door, convincing himself that everything´s fine. Everything´s okay and always will be. Maybe, someday, even better than okay. Because if a lie is pretty enough, believing it feels as easy as breathing.

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**If you have a moment, I´d appreciate hearing your thoughts:) **


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